


What Is Grown From Ink And Bone

by Angel Ascending (angel_in_ink)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Body Horror, Flowers, M/M, Spoilers for Episode 171, Tattoos, technically I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24710290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angel_in_ink/pseuds/Angel%20Ascending
Summary: The first tattoo had been a birthday present to himself, something just for him, special and secret, easily hidden under the sleeve of a shirt during job interviews. A sunflower, cheery and bright and beautiful that bloomed just above his wrist. Another sunflower joined it the week after his first paycheck from the Magnus Institute, and after that his garden had grown even faster. Irises, delicate in purple and blue. Roses, their petals as red as the ones he remembered from childhood. Chrysanthemums as yellow and orange as a sunset. By the time Jon and Martin had walked out of the Lonely together, hand in hand, Martin’s arms had been a garden.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 10
Kudos: 127





	What Is Grown From Ink And Bone

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by @kalgalen's beautiful art of Martin with flower tattoos growing out of his skin, which can be found [here!](http://kalgalen.tumblr.com/post/620856084624703488/then-flourish)

Martin and Jon are quiet as they leave the Mortal Garden together, Jon’s hand firm and warm in Martin’s own. They are not out of the Flesh’s domain, not yet, but the sweet smell of decay and the copper penny tang of blood in the air seem to lessen as they walk. Maybe Martin’s just gotten used to the smell, the same way he’s gotten used to the crunch of bone and the squelch of blood underneath his feet. Or maybe he’s just so pre-occupied by the memory of Jon’s voice describing the ‘flowers’ of Jared’s garden as if he were reading them out of a seed catalog, just like the ones Martin had poured through in his youth.

Martin still remembers the garden of his childhood, the roses and the lilies, the hyacinth and the lavender. That had been before, of course, before his mother had gotten too sick to tend to her beloved flowers, before his father had left, before Martin had dropped out of school. The seed catalogs had still come to the house, and Martin had spent many a night after work reading the descriptions to himself, admiring the pictures and circling the plants he would buy someday, someday when they were back on their feet again. It was a dream Martin had clung to even as his mother’s health worsened, even as he had gotten another job, even as the garden had withered and died from lack of care.

There had been no seed catalogs delivered to the small flat Martin had rented for himself after he had put his mother in a home, after the family house had sold. There had been a succession of houseplants instead, all healthy and green, the tags tucked carefully into their pots proclaiming them to be easy to care for with a minimum of water and sun, all of which had died within weeks or months, leaves yellow from too much water or dried out from not enough. Martin himself had felt like a neglected plant back then, too exhausted from working the latest in a string of dead-end jobs to write more than a few lines of poetry before falling asleep at the table next to another wilted plant.

The first tattoo had been a birthday present to himself, something just for him, special and secret, easily hidden under the sleeve of a shirt during job interviews. A sunflower, cheery and bright and beautiful that bloomed just above his wrist. Another sunflower joined it the week after his first paycheck from the Magnus Institute, and after that his garden had grown even faster. Irises, delicate in purple and blue. Roses, their petals as red as the ones he remembered from childhood. Chrysanthemums as yellow and orange as a sunset. By the time Jon and Martin had walked out of the Lonely together, hand in hand, Martin’s arms had been a garden.

The last tattoo Martin had gotten had been in Scotland, a vibrant purple Scottish Thistle. Jon had gone with him to the tattoo parlor, had sat with him and held his hand. The memory and the tattoo are still fresh, Martin’s skin prickling up near his left elbow as his thoughts return from one past to present, from one garden to another. Martin almost reaches up to scratch his arm before stopping himself, and not just because he knows not to scratch at a healing tattoo.

There’s a rose growing out of one of the holes in the sleeve of his sweater.

Martin blinks at the flower, the blossom nodding with the movement of his walking, the petals stirring with his breath. If Martin concentrates, he swears he can feel the movement of roots twining inside his arm, down under the skin. As he watches, he sees the bright yellow petals of his sunflowers slipping out past his sleeves, feels a long, green stem of laurel start to creep up and over his collar. A vine of ivy, leaves as soft as his own skin, binds his hand to Jon’s.

“Jon?” Martin’s voice sounds surprisingly calm to his own ears. He should be afraid, shouldn’t he? But whatever is happening, it doesn’t hurt, doesn’t _feel_ bad. “Jon?”

Jon stops walking immediately. “Martin?” He turns his head to face Martin, his eyes growing wide for a second. “Oh.”

“Is this— is this dangerous?” For a moment Martin imagines what would happen if the flowers kept growing, if the roots kept digging into him. How long before he wouldn’t be able to walk, roots anchoring him into the soil below? How long before his lungs became a garden? “Do you… do you Know?”

Jon’s eyes go distant for a moment, glowing green like sunlight through leaves before he answers. “Once we leave the domain of the Flesh, the effect will pass, and your tattoos will be tattoos again. You won’t take any lasting harm from this.”

Martin’s breath goes out of him in a relieved sigh. “Well that’s… that’s something at least.” Now that he knows he’s going to be okay, he finds himself wanting to see what the rest of his tattoos look like. He plucks at the sleeve of his sweater, gently trying to push it up.

Jon helps with his free hand, making no move to disentangle his other hand from Martin’s where the ivy has bound them. Free of the fabric, the plants sway in the breeze, the flower petals glowing softly in the ever present light of the Eye above them. Martin closes his eyes and breathes deeply, the fragrance of the flowers momentarily dispelling the scents of rot and decay. For a moment he can imagine that the world hasn’t become other than it was, that he’s standing in the garden he always wanted.

“Beautiful,” Jon whispers, and Martin doesn’t know if Jon is talking about the flowers, or Martin himself, or if he had seen what Martin had been imagining. Either way, Martin can only agree.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m [angel-ascending](http://angel-ascending.tumblr.com) over on Tumblr and [angel_in_ink](http://twitter.com/angel_in_ink) over on Twitter if y’all want to stop by and say hi!


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